


What Might Have Been

by thegirlwiththemouseyhair



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death Fix, M/M, Self-Hatred, Suicide Attempt, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 05:13:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2375969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwiththemouseyhair/pseuds/thegirlwiththemouseyhair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which Thomas and Sybil save Edward's life that night in the hospital. It's an old story, but one that deserves to be told...</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Might Have Been

There’s a roaring in his ears. Edward shivers. The movement forces more blood from his veins and makes that cold-burning pain shoot through his arms again. _I can’t cry out_ , he thinks. He wants to die: it’s the best option for a worthless cripple who’ll soon have no friends left and nowhere to go where he won’t be a burden on others, and always reminded of that fact. Besides, he might not get another chance to do it.

Edward gasps for breath. He can’t control the trembling of his body, though he tries to keep his hands still to minimize the pain in them. _Coward_ , he tells himself. _You can’t cry out._

He’d be too weak to cry anyway. But he squeezes his useless eyes shut as the roaring in his brain threatens to overwhelm him. He can no longer hear the sounds of the hospital ward, though he can feel the sticky pool of blood he lies in. _This is it. I’m really going to die._

Another shudder runs through him, more violent. He hears himself groan into the never-ending darkness - thinks _coward_ again, but wonders if anyone can even hear him, he’s so weak…

He’s not aware of anything except blackness for – a minute? Several minutes? Then he hears panicked voices fading in and out, Nurse Crawley’s and Corporal Barrow’s. _Damn it._

“Sir,” Barrow says, “can you hear me?”

He feels someone pressing a cloth to his left wrist to staunch the bleeding. It must be Barrow’s hand; Edward can tell by the weight and size of the fingers. His heart flutters. He tries to nod, then twists away, ashamed of his own brief flicker of relief at being found, and at the way he should cling to life even now. His stomach lurches as if he might vomit.

“Just leave me alone,” he murmurs.

“That’s enough, Lieutenant,” Nurse Crawley says.

But the desperation that drove Edward to steal that razor flares in him once more. It would be better to die with some semblance of dignity and of choice than to be pitied – a useless burden – for the rest of his life. _And I may not be able to try again…_ He pulls his arm back as far as he can, wrenching himself away from Barrow and away from the gauze, and letting his blood run again. It feels _so_ hot against his ice cold skin.

Barrow’s hand clamps around Edward’s right shoulder as Edward struggles for breath. Then he feels and hears nothing, and of course the blackness of his vision is the same as ever.

He supposes he comes to eventually. Some time must have passed since he lost consciousness: Barrow is tightening a bandage around his left arm while Nurse Crawley is still applying pressure to his right, which he hadn’t been able to cut as badly.

Edward can feel tears welling in his eyes. He doesn’t know if they’re tears of relief at living or fear of _not_ dying.

“You should have let me be,” he says in a hoarse whisper. He tries to move his left hand again before Barrow stops him. Edward’s flesh tingles from the pain deep beneath his skin, radiating out from the wounds he made. He wonders if he’s sliced through tendons or nerves or something and done himself permanent damage; he flinches at the thought. _But I’d be in agony if that were true_ , he thinks. He has _seen_ men with those sorts of injuries, from shrapnel mainly, spasming or unable to move fingers or limbs. Hecanmove his hands, even if it pains him. _You coward – you just couldn’t do it right._

“Hold still,” Nurse Crawley tells him.

“We’re not about to let you die,” Barrow adds. Something in his tone touches Edward. He might have blushed to hear that deep concern – _loyalty_ – had he not lost so much blood.

“I don’t _think_ we need to fetch Major Clarkson,” Nurse Crawley says. Edward can hear the hesitation in her voice. _No_ , he thinks, _anything but that_ – but he doesn’t bother to say it. It’s too humiliating to beg, though he could shudder at the thought of Major Clarkson knowing what he’s done and chastising him.

Barrow says “I don’t think he needs blood – but he can’t travel tomorrow morning, that’s for sure…”

Edward inhales. He wants to agree, but that would make it seem as if the bungled suicide were merely a stunt or a delaying tactic. And he knows – _God, what a fool I was not to think of it before_ – he _knows_ Major Clarkson will condemn him for it.

“Please don’t,” he manages.

He feels Barrow’s hand settle on his shoulder.

“It’s all right, Lieutenant,” Nurse Crawley says, soothingly. “No one’s making any decisions now.”

“We’ll think of something, sir,” Barrow says. He’s not half as calm as she is. Edward thinks Barrow sounds choked up, though it _may_ just be Edward’s imagination. He’s still faint after all, and that roaring is back in his ears…

He loses consciousness once more, or perhaps he drops in and out of consciousness. At one point he thinks he’s cradled against Nurse Crawley’s chest like a small boy with his mother. He thinks he can hear her talking to Barrow, too, but can’t make out the words.

He has no idea how long they’re taking with him or how he gets back into bed, with Barrow’s hand resting on the crook of his arm.

“Corporal?” he asks. His voice is stronger than he expected it would be.

Barrow’s grip on him tightens, just a little.

“You’ll be all right, sir.”

Edward sighs. He’s not all right; he hadn’t even wanted to survive. At least, most of him – part of him – hadn’t.

“You don’t mind watching him?” Nurse Crawley asks.

“Not at all,” Barrow replies. “You can get some rest.”

Edward hears the click of her shoes over the sounds of the ward. She takes a few steps, then stops.

“I think I _have_ thought of something,” Nurse Crawley says.

“What is it?” Barrow asks. Edward knows he’s a little better now: he can hear the warmth and the hope in the other man’s voice.

“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” Nurse Crawley answers. “I want to think it through better. We can talk before we see Major Clarkson.” She takes another faltering step on the stone floor, and adds, “Goodnight – both of you.”

Edward lies there silently, feeling the bed beneath him. He’s no longer lying in his own blood. They must have changed the bedding when he was unconscious. His feet are propped up on a pillow, too. He tries to run his hand over the clean sheets until another twinge of pain shoots through his left arm as he moves it; he groans.

“Still that painful?” Barrow asks him. Edward imagines his face creasing in concern. _If only I knew what he looks like._

“Well, I wanted to do it,” Edward says. Again he wonders if he’s done himself some new injury that will pain him for the rest of his life.

_However long that may be…_

He hears Barrow’s shuddering breath. “I won’t let you give up, sir.”

Edward gives a half-laugh. It’skind of Barrow to say, but it would be absurd _not_ to give up. What does he have left?

“You know how ready my family are to brush me aside,” he says. “And tomorrow or the day after, perhaps, I won’t even have you.”

He has never admitted so much before. It seems strange, yet why shouldn’t he? He has precious little left to lose, and he has come to rely on Barrow and Nurse Crawley. The thought of being friendless in some other hospital was one of the many things that had driven him to act tonight.

Barrow – _Thomas_ , he thinks– touches his hand.

“We’ll think of something,” he insists. Edward turns toward the sound of his voice, interested in what Barrow has to say in spite of himself. “Even if you had to go elsewhere, I’d write twice a day – and I’m sure you could find someone to read my letters to you.”

Edward shakes his head. That’s part of the problem, isn’t it? Not being _whole_ and able to do such a simple thing himself, and not even having someone he trusts to help him, but starting over with no one in a new place…

He realizes that he’s shivering again. He hopes it’s from the blood loss and not his stupid, cowardly panicking at every thought or worry.

“I’ll get you something for the pain,” Barrow says, “and another blanket.”

“They’re in short supply,” Edward whispers. They _are_ : there are hundreds of wounded men pouring in from the front, men in agony with fresh burns or limbs or faces half-off, while Edward did this to himself. He may have bungled it, but it was his own initiative. _I did it; I shouldn’t be taking drugs or blankets or anything from someone else._

Barrow must understand what he means.

“I don’t care, sir,” he counters. “You’re as important as anyone else is.”

But Barrow seems to hesitate before leaving. His warm hand lingers on Edward’s arm.

“I’ll hardly try it again if you turn your back,” Edward snaps. “I haven’t the strength.” His forcefulness surprises Barrow and himself.

“Well,” Barrow begins, weakly, “I’ll only be a moment.”

His hand leaves Edward’s arm. Sweat breaks out on Edward’s brow at being alone again in the cold and the dark. He wonders if Barrow might notice how pathetic he is, or if the ward is dark enough to hide his shame – and dark for everyone, not just for him.

He hears Barrow’s retreating footsteps. At least he didn’t see Edward’s desperation this time. He’s been pitied quite enough lately. _I could have stopped all that if I’d_ succeeded…

True to his word, Barrow returns almost at once. Edward can recognize the sound of his step. It soothes him about as much as he can be soothed now. Barrow seems to _like_ him, not just pity him. He has sounded so moved, sometimes, in speaking to Edward, it makes Edward wonder why and what the other man sees in him.

“Can you sit up, sir? To take the pills–”

Edward scowls at that. Blind or not, he could sit up on his own, only, why bother? It’s Barrow who wants to waste the painkillers on him, not Edward himself.

“I’m tired,” he says. He doesn’t really have the energy to snap, though his tone is harsher than he knows it should be. Barrow isn’t fazed by him.

“Then I’ll help you,” he says, very gently, and reaches for Edward. Edward feels the warm hands on his shoulder and his lower back, easing him into a sitting position.

“All right, I can do it,” Edward says. He feels his cheeks warm. Grimacing, he adjusts his position, supporting his weight on his right arm. Barrow helps him.

For a moment Barrow’s fingers brush Edward’s cheek and hair as he moves. Barrow’s hand lingers just a bit too long, his touch soft and reverent. Edward wants to lean into it. He’s not sure why, but turns his face toward Barrow’s palm anyway.

Then Barrow draws his hand back as if he’d been burned. Edward bites his lip. He knows he’s ridiculous, yet he misses the comfort of the other man’s touch.

“Tell me if you need help,” Barrow says as he hands Edward a spare blanket. Edward thinks, again, of how many more deserving men there must be in this hospital and wonders at Barrow’s kindness. The thought _almost_ distracts him from his own weakness and pain.

“Some water, sir, and I’ll give you the pills,” Barrow offers.

Edward spreads the blanket over his lap. It does little good: he trembles just the same. His hands shake too badly to hold anything.

“Do you mind?” he asks Barrow, keeping his voice low so it won’t shake.

Barrow puts the glass in Edward’s hand and closes his fingers around it.

“Of course not, sir. I’m not – not going to let you suffer anymore.”

Their fingers are entwined now as they both hold the glass. Edward hears Barrow swallow hard before he reaches for Edward’s free hand and places one of the never ending stream of pills in his palm. Then he lets go, refusing to touch Edward for any longer than necessary.

“Go on, sir,” he says.

It’s a ruse to make Edward feel less useless. He can see through _that_ , at least, but gulps the pill down anyway.

“I do wish you’d left me,” he mutters, though he’s not entirely sure.

“Never, sir,” Barrow says.

“I hate to think what Major Clarkson will say,” Edward goes on, heedless of the pain in Barrow’s voice.

Barrow takes the glass back from him. Edward hears its scrape on the bedside table, then the hiss of a lighter.

“We’ll think of something,” Barrow says again. The sharp smell of cigarette smoke fills the ward. Edward wonders if he’s made Barrow anxious; he has certainly sounded drawn, tonight. His kindness is sweet, touching, even if it will do Edward little good in the long run.

“What do you care?” Edward asks. “I mean, why?”

Barrow doesn’t answer right away. He stammers a little when he does, as he will when he’s emotional. They’ve talked enough for Edward to recognise little things like that.

“Because I’ve seen too many good people die,” Barrow says.

There must be more. That’s a cliché; everyone has seen too many people die nowadays. Barrow’s closeness to him is something else. Eventually, he continues.

“I thought we were sort of friends, too,” he adds. “You’re – kind, and you’re clever, and you’re strong, and I –”

He stops short. Edward bites at his lower lip.

“I wish I could believe those things,” he says.

“You should, sir,” Barrow responds, with fire. “You _are_ all that, and I am _your_ friend, if you’ll have me. You’re going to get through this.”

“I can’t imagine how,” Edward says. There’s a lump in his throat.

“Trust me,” Barrow replies.

_You_ should _believe me_ , Edward recalls. _All my life they’ve tried to push me around, just ‘cause I’m different._ And earlier tonight, _I won’t let you give up._ Trust _me_ … He thinks he knows how and why Barrow is so fond of him. It’s an interesting thought. Perhaps he’s wrong – he certainly can’t imagine _why_ someone should feel that way about him of all people – but he takes a strange comfort in it as he lies down again, suddenly exhausted.

“What o’clock is it?” he asks. His eye lids twitch and he realizes his head is swimming.

Barrow tells him the time. Edward turns away from him on the bed, guiltily.

“You must have been here so long,” he murmurs. “You must be so tired.”

“I don’t mind,” Barrow says.

Edward’s mind goes silent for a moment. Then he remembers that he has yet to reply to Barrow – he must have been half asleep.

“You don’t have to watch me, you know,” Edward says. The thought is shameful and makes Edward’s chest tighten, though he’s too tired to sound commanding or even upset.

“I don’t mind, sir,” Barrow repeats. Edward hears the chair scrape on the floor, then feels Barrow’s hand settle on his arm once again. It warms him even more than the two blankets can. Soon he dozes off to grim thoughts of the next day that are, perhaps, made less grim by knowing that Barrow is beside him and holding him still.


End file.
